


Christmas miracle

by Moriartyisback



Category: MorMor - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmasy but angsty, M/M, but then a lil bit of hope don't you worry, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriartyisback/pseuds/Moriartyisback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Everyone?” You asked, and he looked at you, in that way that meant he was reading your mind and smiled. “Everyone” he replied, stroking your skin like something precious… so maybe, you think, maybe he wasn’t just talking about Holmes. Everyone has a pressure point…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas miracle

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa's gift for pocket-companion  
> Hope you enjoy it  
> xxM

You wake up with the loud bang of a gun. You wake up with Sherlock’s yell, with the sound of a body falling back to the concrete. You wake up with all that, even if you weren’t there. Your brain created it for you, with all kind of details- _fantastic, isn’t it?_

You sit up on the bed, _his_ bed. Your bed. You are sweating even if it’s mid-winter. Your breathing is sharp and your chest hurts. You reach for a cigarette before the images of your boss, with the back of his skull blown up, disappear. While you light the fag with one hand the other goes to your ribcage. _Tachycardia_. As usual. Lately, you are even more used to be on the edge than cool and controlled.

With the first, deep drag your heart seems to settle and you open your eyes to the morning light. You don’t feel anymore that welcoming emotion, when you used to wake up in this room. No. Just pain.

You smash the cigarette on the ashtray before smoking it fully. You finish nothing nowadays. You make your way to the bathroom, with the memory of that day still on the back of your mind. Your steps running to the roof of St. Barts… You couldn’t believe it. You didn’t _want_ to. But the sight offered to you up there brought you to your knees. And you couldn’t even reach for him, bring him with you, weep… sirens coming closer…

You had to go.

The flick of the light brings you up from your particular piece of  Hell and when you look up in the mirror you despise what you see. You are looking savage. Un-shaved, blue eyes dull, bags under them… You look dead.

 _Not as dead as him_. A voice echoes in your mind. A voice you recognize as his.

“Shut up!” You give a punch down on the sink, breathing heavily. You are alone in the bathroom, losing your mind. You can hear him laughing at you, scolding. Oh Goodness.

You wash your face and leave.

You have had better days and some far worse. But it’s been two years and you can’t get over it. You can’t let go. You can’t forget. You tried. God knows you did. But it’s too much. He was your life. He was everything you wanted. Now you have nothing.

He left you everything. _Nice touch, bastard._ The flat, his empire, everything. You want nothing. You want _him_. How dull is life now. Nothing is exciting. People are boring, ordinary- Oh! What did he do to you…

You walk barefoot to the kitchen, in search of something edible and open a cabinet. There is some coffee but you don’t touch that. There is a post-it note on that package.

_EMERGENCY COFFEE. DO NOT TOUCH. GET YOUR ARSE OUT AND BUY MORE, MORAN_

You have not touched that coffee pack, even if it may be out of date by now.

You keep finding post-it notes here and there. Inside a drawer where he wanted a specific thing to be. Around his office. Inside your laptop once, before a very dangerous hit abroad. You saw it once in Germany.

_Don’t get killed, Moran. We still have many things to do._

It’s the closest thing to a declaration of love you ever got. You kept that note like a lucky charm all these years. The ink of his pen is slightly blurry. So many times you have stroked over his handwriting. He saw you kept it, but never commented about it. _Sentiments_. _Found on the losing side..._

You keep seeing notes and things that remind you of him. It’s like he’s slowly killing you, even after being gone. Just that fucking son of a bitch could do that.

You find some tea you can drink even if that bottle of whisky on top of the counter is calling. You step to the living room, shaking your head. It’s like going back to being discharged. You thought that was over. _He_ said that was over. This was your place, by his side, guarding him, helping him, taking hits like no-one else. Loving him. Fighting back.

Before your realize it the mug is on the floor, shattered. Your hands are shaking and you swallow dryness. You hate him more than you have ever hated anyone. More than your father, in a way. But you also love him like no-one ever could love a man.

You crouch over the fireplace, forgetting the tea and light it, just to keep your hands from shaking. You wonder what would be holding a rifle between your hands again. Would they shake too? Probably. He even took away that from you. Everything you were. You light the fire, trying not to think about him. But it’s useless. It’s Christmas day and memories hit you. You wish you could forget. That’s why you drink. But then you hate yourself for thinking that, because you are the only one that had ever seen James Moriarty like that and once you are gone, those memories will die with you.

He liked to read a book by the fireplace on Christmas. Listen to Brahms, drink some tea. You laughed the first time you saw him there, with his jumper and his hair all messed up from bed. He smiled in that way he had that made you shiver and get warm at the same time and told you “Did you think I’m always planning super-villain stuff?”

He was. Always plotting, Moriarty’s mind never stopping, what a wonder. What a curse. But he was right. He did take some time apart from that. Time to relax from time to time. Not as much as you would have liked, but you relished those moments like a thirsty man. Nothing was black and white with that man. He could kill you anytime, any moment. But he took his time to kiss you and fuck you and keep you safe, in his own way. You would always believe he saved you. You were a wreck before he came into your life. You owe him everything. But he’s gone now and nothing of that matters anymore.

That bottle of whisky seems like a good idea now. You move heavily from the fireplace and take it from the kitchen, drinking a long swig before reaching the living room again. You put some music. Bach. His favourite.

Something settles on your throat every time you listen to it. A knot. But you can’t help it. It’s the only thing you have left.

You take another gulp of whisky, while you collapse on the couch. What a wonderful Christmas. You can hear the people outside, being _happy_. You can’t remember what that feels like.

You never liked Christmas since you were a child and your mother was alive. After that, everything went to hell so Christmas was just another date. Until Jim came. He didn’t like to celebrate either, but you two did, in your own way. The first year you moved in with him you fucked almost the entire month. You two didn’t leave the bed, not even on New Year’s Eve. You welcomed the new year the best way you could, hands on each other, kissing, fucking, listening to the fireworks in the distance. _Poor ordinary people_ , you thought, _you are missing out life_. A life he showed you. A world he gifted you. The world he owned. Moriarty’s own gift to you.

That’s why you hate Christmas now. He showed you what could be. You don’t belong anywhere now.

The second year you weren’t together on Christmas. You remember Jim had to go abroad. Some important business going on in the States. You couldn’t go with him. You had your own job here. Moriarty’s second in command had more things to do that you could think about. You stayed, even if you were angry. You told him that year you wanted to watch the fireworks with him, maybe eating some junk food somewhere. Nothing special. Of course he laughed at you, ruthless and just kept his business going. You weren’t the first thing, obviously. So Christmas and New Year came by and you two weren’t together for a long month and a half. It was around mid-January when you received a text, the day he was coming back from New York. You were dying to see him, to be honest, even if you wouldn’t ever tell him. You had the feeling he could read that on you anyway.

_Come up to the roof xJM_

Mysterious. Just like everything about him. You returned home quickly and went straight to the roof, pretty much running upstairs like a maniac.

He was there, in the dark roof, with his hands in his coat, his back to you. The cold wind was messing his hair and you couldn’t wait to reach for him, but you were a wise man and approached him slowly. You stopped beside him, looking to London, like he was, pretty much ignoring each other, even if you were literally dying for a kiss.

“If you ever comment about this you will understand why I don’t get my hands dirty” he told you, still not looking at you. A soft shiver travelled your spine. You had missed that voice. You had missed his threats. You had missed him.

A moment later you understood what he was talking about. Fireworks over London’s sky. The most beautiful ones you have ever seen. Just for you. He had settled your own New Year’s Eve for you, half a month later. You ate junk food he had bought that night, watched the fireworks and made love for hours in the solitude and coldness of that roof.

It’s not a wonder you spend your Christmas now braced to a bottle of whisky, fighting back tears.

Two years now. Two years. Without him.

You wonder how are you going to survive this. And you know the answer. You won’t.

You always despised those people that cried their souls out when they were dumped. But then again this is not that. He shot himself. He left you here. He left you behind. He chose to win a game. A game you saw him losing. Holmes was back. _Why can’t you be back too!?_ You have yelled that to the world more nights than you are proud of.

Maybe you should go too. Why not? There’s nothing left for you here. The world is dull without James Moriarty. There is no-one like him. No-one. _Ever_. You have been dreaming of revenge. Maybe you should kill the Holmes brothers, then burn London to the ground. Then you can go. He would like that. The inevitable end.

Still thinking about pleasing him. 

You sniff and give a long swig from your bottle. _Pathetic, Moran_. You couldn’t even keep his Empire untouched, even if you did your damn best. But to be fair, you have done enough. He should be here. All you wanted is to be by his side, serving someone worthwhile. All you ever wanted was him. You were a devoted. You still are. If he would have just stayed with you… but no, you weren’t important. Even if you thought you were, sometimes. He looked at you in a way…

He told you something strange the night before that fucking day. The night before Sherlock’s fall. He told you, everyone has someone they want to protect from harm. You remember it very well, of course, it’s branded to your mind, that night. You had fucked like ever before and you were huddled in bed. He was strange and now you understand why. He told you everyone had a weak spot. Someone special. “Everyone?” You asked, and he looked at you, in that way that meant he was reading your mind and smiled. “Everyone” he replied to you, stroking your skin like something precious… so maybe, you think, maybe he wasn’t just talking about Holmes. Everyone has a pressure point…

You drink more whisky, firmly, stubbornly. Because no, he didn’t want to protect you. He is gone. He is dead.

Suddenly you smell something. _Fuck_. Your mind is yet again fooling you, tricking you. You swear you can smell Jim’s cigarettes. You laugh dryly. _Masochist_. You miss him that badly. You are starting to fucking _smell_ things that aren’t there.

Then you swear you can hear something, but it’s impossible. There’s no-one else in this building apart from you. And it’s normal. It’s not the first time you have hallucinated with something like this.

But there’s something odd and you move your head to the door, awaiting in silence.

Nothing, of course, what did you expect, _fucking Santa Claus_?

You are going to take another gulp but now you swear you are hearing keys. Fucking keys. You stand up like a resort, the little post-it note is still on your hand, the bottle in the other and you choose to drop the note for now to grab the gun you have hidden under the table. Maybe it’s the Iceman, the MI-6. He has taken his time, but hey, you fucking want it to be him, because it's impossible, the only one you wish that would cross that door…

You stop in the middle of the hall, when the door opens and you blink your wet eyes. Once. Twice. Three times…

You cannot believe.

There's a long moment of silence. Unreal. Every second feels like ages.

“It’s ten in the morning, tiger. You can't drink that”

That Irish drawl. It’s broken somehow. His voice sounds tired, even with those words.

It sounds shaky.

His dark eyes. They are wet, like yours.  _Damn your eyes._

You drop to your knees. The sight of him once again doing that to you. You are hallucinating, you are dreaming, you are dead… but then he steps in and touches your hair with a shaky hand, almost as shaky as yours.

You press your face against his stomach and inhale.

After two long years, you can start breathing again.


End file.
